Page 42 of Lovesick
“The douchiest.”
Staring down at the fried casualties on my plate and the corresponding ketchup bloodshed, guilt torpedoes into my chest, obliterating my ribs and exposing the vulnerable muscle palpitating underneath. Should I share my harrowing past with him too? I mean, it feels like I should. I don’t even know how to continue this conversation. I never expected Crew to confide in me about something so personal.
He tries to ease my anger. “It’s in the past now. And I hate to admit it, but I’ve never really known how to sustain healthy relationships with people. Not with my father or my exes. I was never good enough to bring home; I was always someone’s secret. My ex-girlfriends were embarrassed of my social class. Aflashy hockey title didn’t mean anything when I was a gas station worker in Orono. I was never a source of pride, and that was hard to hear since I’ve worked my whole life to be seen for who I really am.”
No wonder he doesn’t make a big deal about his status now. I can’t imagine not wanting to showtheCrew Calloway off. He’s more than his title as hockey captain. He’s more than his past.
So what if he comes from a poorer family? Suddenly he’s not good enough to be treated like an actual human being? Then he makes a name for himself, and people want to take advantage of his eminence? He can’t win.
All those generalizations I made—I was judging his character before I even knew anything about him.
A beat passes between us, and I bid farewell to that sharp wit of mine. When I open my mouth to say God knows what, our waitress swings back by our table, placing the bill on the corner unladen with grease-stained wrappers.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she says in a sweet, Midwestern accent.
I shrink into my seat. So much for trauma bonding.
Crew has been quiet. Not down, per se, but pensive. The sun has been blotted out by a passing congregation of clouds, and they roll out a subsequent penumbra over Minnesota’s frost-kissed land. The wind lashes against my bare arms; I regret not having brought a jacket with me.
Resisting the urge to shiver, we walk side by side to his parked Toyota Camry, and eventually—unfortunately—he bears witness to an ill-timed tremble. He looks down at the goose bumps flecked over my skin.
Cursing under his breath, Crew pulls off his hoodie andyanks it over my head without so much as a warning. Disoriented—my thoughts slapped together like cutout scraps of a ransom note—I take in the giant, cold-protectant blanket now draped over me. His sleeves completely dwarf my hands, the hem of his hoodie falling to the middle of my thighs. It’s so soft, and it smells just like him—his true musk, unscented by the overpowering notes of his cologne.
“Thank you,” I say, hoping that the overcast sky covers up my blush.
His voice is a warm glass of whiskey. “You should’ve told me you were cold.”
“I didn’t want to steal your hoodie.”
Something strange brims in his steel eyes—something I can’t place, and something that grabs me by the ankles and drags me into the undertow. “You have permission to steal any of my hoodies from here on out. Plus, it looks better on you anyways.”
Crew is naturally flirty, but this feels…different. Maybe I’m overthinking things. Maybe I’m trying to manifest something that can never happen. It’s like I’m attempting to hold on to two different worlds that aren’t compatible, and I’ll stretch myself to the limit just to please everyone but myself.
I don’t realize my silence corroborates my unease.
Crew backpedals immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t mean?—”
“No, it’s…I appreciate it.”
When we near his car, he rushes ahead to open the passenger door for me, and I hesitate before climbing into the seat. I don’t want this to end. This is going to sound crazy, but aside from when I’m dancing, this is the first time I haven’t thought about the outside world. It’s like we exist in this special little haven just for us—a hidden alcove tucked beneath a rushing waterfall, protected from inescapable currents and spiky outcrops of igneous rocks.
His breath slips out of him in a visible wisp, swirling like afigure-eight in the glacial air. “Uh, you know how Sigma Chi’s throwing a welcome party next weekend?”
“Yeah?”
Crew shifts the weight between his feet, drumming his thumb on the interior of the door. “Would you maybe…I don’t know…want to go?” he proposes, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
That seems like a disaster waiting to happen, right? An endless fountain of drinks, an overflowing cache of illegal substances, an unauthorized setting where inebriated twenty-somethings do whatever they want. Not to mention that if I ingest even asingledrop of alcohol, there’s no saying what will happen between me and Crew with my inhibitions playing hooky.
But on the other hand, maybe a party is just what I need to decompress. Spending a whole night with Crew sounds exactly like heaven. Dancing together, talking into the early morning. I definitely won’t be able to get close to him in any other scenario—not with Big Brother watching.
The sex-starved demon inside me screeches for physical contact, implanting fuzzy snippets of roaming hands on sweaty bodies and gluttonous tongues flicking over delicate pulse points. Just thinking about going for round two with Crew makes a five-alarm fire ignite in my core.
“Just as friends, right?” I reaffirm, knowing full well that I don’t have the self-control to be “just friends.” Suddenly, I’m fawn-legged, lightheaded, and my belly is overrun with a kaleidoscope of butterflies.
An oafish, lopsided smile adorns his lips, his blush redder than a pomegranate in winter. “I would’ve taken acquaintances, but yeah. Friends.”
When I roll those unsaid words around in my mouth, swishing them, the aftertaste they leave behind is sour. “Friends,” I parrot.
